Page 32 of The Older Brother
Chapter 10
I seewhy my mom wanted me to meet with Dr. Addleton. He’s slick, rather good-looking, and it’s hard to ignore his personal wealth. Especially since he lowkey brags about it in so many not-so-subtle ways. The rotating slideshow on his computer screen behind him showing him with celebrities on red carpets, in exotic places for vacations, on his yacht . . . it’s all part of his hard sell, I’m sure. And if I were more like my mom, I’d probably be walking out of this meeting dreaming of building a life just like his by taking that first step with the North State business school program.
But I’m not like my mom. At least not when it comes to ambition. I don’t want to accumulate things. I want experiences, but I don’t need them to come with caviar and servants. I want to be useful, to help people, and avoid a life that comes with a closet filled with pant suits and name plaques for my office and titles.
I’m carrying the weight of sitting through that hour-long meeting with Dr. Addleton into this one with my swimming coach, Becca Cruz, and my cheeks ache from all the fake smiling. At least her office is attached to the indoor swimming facilityand comes with a cleansing waft of fresh chlorine. Maybe the fumes will clean out my mind.
“A lot of our athletes come up a week early, too. It’s an option for you, but not mandatory.” The way the last word tumbles from my coach’s tongue gives me a sense that while I’m not obligated to show up early, I am expected to.
“Thank you, Coach. I’ll give that some serious thought.” I shake her hand at the exit from the swimming venue, the rumble of Miguel’s truck apparent about fifty feet behind me. My coach’s gaze drifts over my shoulder as our hands part.
“That your ride?”
I glance behind me, my eyes going right to the tatted arm stretched out the driver’s side window. Rowan’s other hand is draped over the steering wheel, and his ballcap is pulled low over his brow. He looks to be napping.
“Which one?” I chuckle when I turn back to face her.
“I'm assuming the one being driven by that sexy guy with tattoos.” Coach lifts a brow when our eyes meet, and we share a silent but mutual acknowledgement that Rowan is incredibly good looking. “It looks like the other two aren't really road-ready.”
“Yeah, he’s my ride. The ugly Toyota on the trailer is mine, and I lucked out running into him.”
“As in, you just met and he’s already hauling your car around for you and driving you back to the Valley?” She laughs through her words, and I realize how I made it sound.
“No, not like that. Rowan and I are . . . old friends.” I chew at my lip for a second, and my coach lets out an audible, “Ha!”
“I have an old friend like that. He became my husband,” she jokes, but the insinuation lands heavy in the center of my chest.
“Really, we’re just friends.” It’s a lie, and even I don’t believe it the way it sounds coming from my mouth. But I don’t exactly have terms that define whatever the hell it is Rowan and I aredoing. And I’m not telling my coach that he’s my ex’s brother and we’re potential fuck buddies.
“Keep me posted on your plans, if you plan to come up for the early week and off-the-books training. Oh, and let me know how the coaching works out. Maybe I can catch a meet when I head down there for recruiting this summer. You can tell me which fifth and sixth graders to keep an eye on.”
We exchange a pleasant laugh as I nod, then turn to head toward Rowan. My jaw pops as I stretch my mouth open wide, erasing the smile from existence. I’m exhausted from pretending to be excited about any of this, and I feel guilty that Coach Cruz likes me so much. I like her! In fact, I wouldn’t mind getting a few coaching pointers from her. I’m simply not jazzed about competing anymore. But who knows, maybe I’ll find that spark before that first week of August rolls around.
“Excuse me, sir. There’s no loitering here,” I say in a deep voice that still sounds exactly like me.
Rowan’s mouth quirks up on my side, and he stretches both arms out over the steering wheel before pulling his hat from his head and running a palm through his incredible hair. He tosses the hat on the dash.
“You texted me to be here at five. I can’t help it if you ladies got chatty.” He taps the watch on his left wrist.
I wince and utter, “Sorry.”
He leans his head toward the passenger side.
“Come on. Get in.”
Four simple words, but somehow, uttered in his deep voice, they’ve made me feel all tingly.
I skip around the front of the truck and climb into my seat, dumping my stack of business school brochures and application onto the center console. Rowan slides his hand over it while I buckle up.
“You thinking of following in your mom’s footsteps?” He squints as he glances up to meet my eyes. I sense his disappointment, and I want to quash it fast.
“Oh, God no! I did her a favor and met with the dean. That’s as far as that goes. I can’t imagine a life of spreadsheets and boardrooms.”
He nods, then sweeps my stack of papers into a neat pile and deposits it into the groove between my seat and the console.
“Good. I don’t see that life for you either. You’re meant for something . . . more.” He nods with that final word, and hearing him say it with such confidence fills me with a little bit of my own.
“Thanks,” I croak.
